Chronicles of Pelatiah

Malcolm blinked his copper eyes sleepily. The night had returned once more, but he was in no hurry to leave his warm tree hollow. Before a night voyage there were other things to attend to. On a small shelf inside the hollow stood a small ink pot, with one of his own moulted feathers laid beside it, point trimmed to make a quill pen. He took a small book from another shelf and laid it before him. Malcolm took the pen in his talons, dipped it in ink once, and began to write:

I, Malcolm of Pelatiah, have now taken upon myself the task of chronicling the adventures and exploits of the Fernwood Band, which have never been set down in book by any creature, yet should never be forgotten. Still fresh in my mind are these tales, told to me by the Band members themselves, those who I have been privileged to know. But where to begin? The rise of the Yaniviv? Or should I tell of The Battle of the Ford? Or of the mysteries of Fernwood?

Malcolm paused, head on one side, quill poised in mid air, then, decided, he looked once more to his writing chuckling as he did so " Ha! I do sound like an old chronicler.. Well, I suppose I am"


I now know where I must begin, with tale of Arzu the Banished, white wolverine of the south, that took place a mere four years before this day. I will set it down as it was told to me, in two parts, as follows.....

The wind was icy cold and bit deep into the cowl of the warrior’s cloak.  The warrior adjusted his position, his hands firmly clutching the ropes and rudder.  His boat was small, barely four meters long.  It only just held the sea at bay, and its single mast swayed and shook.  The triangle sail was only at half strength, any higher and the boat could capsize if a sudden gust of wind arose.  The hunched figure lifted his head, peering eastward.  Nothing but the rolling waves of the dark and angry sea.  A massive swell rolled towards the boat, and the warrior quickly turned his rudder so that the bow of his boat met it head on.  He drifted over it, blinking as salt water splashed into his eyes.  He adjusted his hood, gathering the battered material closer to his cold body.  His fur was drenched and heavy.  

A sudden whistle of fear blinked his eyes up, his companion, a small bird, had noticed danger.  But it was too late and the wave smashed into the side of their boat, filling it with water and tipping it over almost onto its side.  He watched as his supplies were washed overboard, but he didn't care as he was rushing to the opposite side of the boat, trying to right it again.  It settled lower in the water and before the warrior could shout a warning the boat had disappeared below the waves and he was left floating in the water, casting of his cloak before it could drown him.  

The Lindryth Sea was cold, so cold that many poor souls had frozen to death within several minutes of falling in the water.  The warrior was a fighter, though, and the cold only slowly bit away from him.  He floated on his back, rolling over the waves as they passed under him.  He could no longer feel his paws, and his lips wouldn't close completely.  He watched the dark thundering clouds as he waited for the end.  The little fantail bird perched in his hair, shivering and hiding under its wing.  Darkness turned to red and then it turned to black as he lost consciousness.  

A sharp slash across his back reminded him he was still alive.  "On yer feet scum!" cried out a screechy voice.  His back stung again and he slowly woke up.  His eyes blinked open, and he surged to his knees.  He looked up at his tormentor with dead blank eyes.  This time the whip hit him across the face, slashing his cheek and drawing blood.  He looked around in panic, suddenly realising where he was.  He was kneeling on the deck of a massive ship, with fifteen or so vermin looking back at him.  The one with the whip struck again, but the warriors hand flashed out and caught it, mid strike.  The rat looked back at him in surprise, and then the whip was tugged from his hand and thrown overboard.  

The rat cocked his head at the warrior.  "Well, well, well.  The little scummy Wolverine got some fight still in em!  Good, he'll raise a better price when we reach Claw bay.  Put em in the Brig! And he sees no rations till we get out of this storm!” Two vermin, a stoat and a weasel, walked forwards carefully and grabbed him by his arms. The warrior, too tired to fight back, was launched to his feet and led off to the brig.

Many days past, and the wolverine starved. Finally the storm passed, and the wolverine received his first meal. Unfortunately for him, the food was little more than water and potato skin, boiled to a broth. He almost gagged when it was first served to him by a small fat stoat.

“You'll meet the captain in a few hours, scum!” he giggled squeakily in his very high voice. “He'll sort you straight! Yesh he will!” The stoat cook stumbled out, giggling to himself. The warrior pinched his nose and swallowed the rest of his soup. He would need to have his strength up when he went to escape. He settled down for a long stay in the ship. Soon he would leave, very soon.

Willow sat, nestled between two rocks on a small island, just outside the calmer waters of Claw Bay. It was a watch island, used only when the Fernwood band heard rumors of pirates. It was her first watch back on the island since several days ago, the day of the storm. The sea stretched out shining and flat before her, but it could change ever so swiftly to a mass of churning grey waves, as it had on her last watch. There had been the boat also. A tiny boat, unready for the wrath of the Lindryth Sea, with a single foolhardy sailor steering it into the gathering dark clouds. It had been a creature she had never seen before, save in books, a wolverine, but white like the snow of the Northern Mountains. The small vessel had never returned. She sighed. If he had thought only a little more... stayed in the bay. The wolverine must be dead, there was no way he could have survived that storm.

She shoved the thought to the back of her mind, as she heard another boat slide up onto the sand of the island's small harbour, and she sprang to her feet. Probably simply her watch relief, but you could never be too sure...

The prisoner was asleep when the ship below him vibrated.  He instantly shot up, alert and ready.  He heard several loud clicks, and then a shallow thud.  He knew enough about ships to recognise an anchor being lowered.  They had arrived at their destination.  Sure enough, boots thumped and the brig door swung open.  Several pirates stood, their weapons lowered at the wolverines neck.  He nodded and silently complied with his captors.  He bided his time, watching for any opportunity to make a dash for freedom.  

He walked, slumped and broken, to the main deck of the massive ship.  He lifted his eyes to the edge of the railing.  The ship was anchored in a bay, and forests lay off inland.  A river ran down through the brooding trees into the sea.  

The wolverine’s breath was knocked from him as a rat smacked him with a large club.  "Into the boat!  Quick fast scum!  The Yaniviv are waiting...” he said menacingly.  The pirate crew clambered into small dinghies and then headed toward shore where a band of other creatures waited, pacing.

When no one appeared Willow rushed down to the sandy harbour skittering over stones and sand. It was a boat, but completely empty. She stared at it for a few moments, before realizing it was the wolverine's boat, the waves had washed it up on the shore. Up on the askew mast a fantail was perched, twittering frantically, something Willow couldn't quite make out. Was it "Shore"? She glanced towards the mainland shore. A ship!!!! A pirate ship was anchored in the bay! How had she not seen it? Willow clapped a paw to her forehead. Not only that, there was a group of creatures assembled on the beach, waving the Yaniviv standard. She leapt into her rowboat and struck out for the shore.